


the way you wear your hat; the way you sip your tea

by talkwordytome



Series: Emily-verse (Ratched) [7]
Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: Childhood Sweethearts, Emily-verse, F/F, First Love, Fluff, Gen, Sweet, baby lesbians, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28059840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: “Do you know,” Emily finally says, “that feeling some people give you, as though they really see you? Exactly for who you are? Even the ugly parts you wish you could hide. And the world is enormous and I feel so…solostin it all sometimes, but then you look at them.”in which Emily is smitten for the first time, and Gwendolyn and Mildred are more than a little thrilled about it.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs & Emily (original character), Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched, Mildred Ratched & Emily (original character)
Series: Emily-verse (Ratched) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036965
Comments: 70
Kudos: 86





	the way you wear your hat; the way you sip your tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SBWomenofMarvel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SBWomenofMarvel/gifts).



> for SBWomenofMarvel, who requested it. enjoy, boo!
> 
> in case you haven't read all of my Emily-verse, Kathleen is a friend (and maybe MORE than a friend) of Emily's that I've referenced in a few other fics.
> 
> title comes from the song "they can't take that away from me"
> 
> timeline: this fic takes place in October 1958, so Emily is 14 and in the 9th grade

“Have you noticed anything strange going on with Emily lately?”

Gwendolyn and Mildred are lounging on the sofa, enjoying drinks before dinner while Emily does her homework upstairs. Mildred has been quiet, lost in thought, until she asked her question. Gwendolyn takes a moment to swallow her bourbon before she answers.

“No?” she says. “I don’t think so.”

“She hardly touched her dinner last night,” Mildred says, her brow furrowed, “and she’s been so… _so_ moody lately.”

“She’s fourteen now,” Gwendolyn points out. “Everyone gets a bit funny around that age. I know I did.” She sighs. “Your body is changing, you’re emotional, you’re being _flooded_ with hormones.”

Mildred sits up. “Yes, but that’s exactly it,” she insists. “It’s a terribly confusing time, and children can be so cruel to each other, Gwendolyn. What if someone’s…hurt her, or what if it’s…I don’t know…melancholia? Depression? Or what if--”

Gwendolyn gently covers Mildred’s mouth with her hand. “Mildred,” she says, laughing softly, “you’re getting yourself all into a swivet.”

Mildred huffs behind Gwendolyn’s hand, and her breath is warm on Gwendolyn’s palm. 

“Darling, if you’re really that worried about Emily,” Gwendolyn says, “then we’ll talk to her. I’m sure it’s not as awful as you think it is.”

Emily picks at her meal for the second night in a row, despite it being one of her favorites--pork chops with scalloped potatoes and green beans amandine. She sits quietly in her chair, her pointed chin propped in her hand, as she pushes food around her plate. She offers answers when Mildred and Gwendolyn ask questions about her day, but makes no attempts to start a conversation herself.

Until, nearly twenty minutes into dinner, she turns to Mildred, her large, blue-eyed gaze intense, and asks, “When did you first know that you loved Gwendolyn?”

Mildred chokes on her wine. She holds a napkin to her mouth, coughing, and glares at Gwendolyn with teary eyes when Gwendolyn starts to giggle. She smooths her napkin back in her lap and clears her throat as she regains her composure.

“When--when did I…?” she asks.

“When did you first know you were in love with Gwendolyn?” Emily finishes patiently, like a parent explaining to a child why they can’t have ice cream for breakfast.

Gwendolyn and Mildred exchange glances. Gwendolyn raises her eyebrows: _how to explain_? Mildred taps her fingers against the table as she thinks, mentally listing out details that she can’t include. It’s admittedly a rather short explanation once she’s excised anything that involves bloodshed.

“Sometimes,” Mildred says slowly, “you…you can look at someone and know that they’re your person.” 

She smiles shyly at Gwendolyn. “And I suppose that’s how it was for us.”

Emily squints at Mildred, as though she can tell she’s getting short changed out of the entire truth. “Well, yes,” Emily says, “but…how? What is it that tells you? How can you tell that they’re a…a _romantic_ sort of person, and not just…a friend?”

Gwendolyn cocks her head to the side. “Sweetheart,” she says, “are _you_ wondering if _you’re_ in love with somebody?”

“ _No_ ,” Emily says, quickly and adamantly, though the scarlet blush blooming on her cheeks rather contradicts her. “I just…I _am_ fourteen now, and sometimes one--one simply has _questions_ about more adult concerns.” She purses her lips primly. “That’s all.”

Gwendolyn and Mildred exchange another glance. “Yes,” Mildred says slowly, “I suppose _one_ does.” 

Later, much later, Gwendolyn and Mildred lie in bed, laughing about the conversation. Mildred wraps all of her limbs around Gwendolyn and buries her face in her neck. Nighttime Gwendolyn smells like soap, expensive perfume, and bourbon. Mildred sometimes thinks she might one day simply drown in it.

“Emily is in _love_ ,” Gwendolyn whispers giddily. “Or at the very least smitten with someone.” She sighs. “Oh, I still remember the first time I really fell for someone. I was a little younger than Emily. Eleven, maybe? Twelve?”

She smiles. “Her name was Ruth,” she says. “She lived two houses down from me, and every time I saw her I’d get such butterflies in my stomach. I would walk on air for _hours_ when she so much as _spoke_ to me.”

Mildred half smiles, a bit sadly. “That sounds lovely,” she says, wistful.

“Oh, Mildred, darling, I’m sorry,” Gwendolyn says, holding Mildred tighter, worried she’s brought some childhood trauma to the surface.

Mildred, though, shakes her head. “No, no,” she reassures, kissing Gwendolyn’s hand, “please don’t apologize. It--it’s _good_ that you had that. Everyone should have that.”

Gwendolyn graces a hand over Mildred’s cheek. “You didn’t,” she says softly.

“No,” Mildred agrees. She nuzzles closer to Gwendolyn. “But now I have you.”

* * *

A week goes by, and Emily doesn’t bring up any concerns of love and romance again. Mildred and Gwendolyn largely forget the dinner conversation, caught up as they are in the minutiae of their own lives. Emily begins to spend long periods of time whispering into the telephone, though when she hangs up and Mildred or Gwendolyn ask who she was talking to, she demurs. She does a lot of sighing, and re-reads _Pride and Prejudice_. She takes longer than usual getting ready for school, and one morning during breakfast Mildred spies hints of mascara and lipstick.

Mildred and Gwendolyn are getting ready for bed when Emily knocks on their door. Mildred, who is brushing her hair at the vanity, looks to Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn puts aside her speech points draft and removes her reading glasses.

“Yes?” Gwendolyn says. “What is it?”

Emily stands in the doorway, nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She’s wearing a pair of yellow and white striped pajamas and her hair is pulled back in a scarf. Her toenails are painted pink. She’s chewing on her bottom lip and, all at once, looks so much like Mildred that Gwendolyn nearly forgets she’s not biologically related to them.

“Hi,” Emily says. “I know I’m sort of old for it now, but can I…?” she trails off and gestures to their bed.

“Always,” Gwendolyn says, then pushes back the covers.

Emily climbs under the blankets and leans against Gwendolyn. She tips her chin up so she’s looking at Gwendolyn, but doesn’t speak.

Gwendolyn cups Emily’s cheek. “What is it?” she asks. “Are you feeling alright?”

Emily nods, then slowly exhales. She rubs the satin edge of the comforter between her fingers. “I would like,” she says carefully, “to host a dinner.”

Mildred stands up from the vanity and walks over to the bed. She sits down next to Emily and wraps an arm around Emily’s shoulders. She kisses her temple.

“A dinner sounds lovely,” Mildred says, “but is there any particular reason?”

Emily turns bright pink and slides down until everything but the top of her head is obscured by the blankets. She mumbles something, but the words are unintelligible around the heavy fabric. Gwendolyn and Mildred giggle.

“I’m sorry,” Gwendolyn says, “we didn’t quite catch that.”

Emily emerges enough that her forehead, eyes, and nose are visible. The tips of her ears are red. Her eyebrows nearly meet in the middle as she huffs a frustrated sigh. “I think,” she says, refusing to meet Gwendolyn and Mildred’s eyes, “that I maybe have…a person.” 

She blows her bangs out of her face with a short puff of air. “And I would like to have them over for a…a dinner party. If that’s alright with you all.” 

Gwendolyn squeals. Mildred elbows her. Emily groans and disappears beneath the covers again. 

“What’s their name?” Mildred asks tactfully, though secretly she would like nothing more than to squeal right along with Gwendolyn, and maybe even bounce on the bed.

Emily pokes her head back out. “I’d prefer not to answer,” she says delicately.

“Oh, honey,” Gwendolyn says, sobering immediately, “why not? We’re going to meet them anyway, aren’t we?”

Emily picks at a cuticle. “You’ll think it’s…silly,” she says.

“Never,” Mildred says firmly. “Nothing this important to you will ever be silly to us, Emily. I promise.”

Emily takes a deep breath. “Kathleen,” she blurts, before immediately diving back under the blankets.

For several moments, all Gwendolyn and Mildred can do is blink at each other. 

“You do _so_ think it’s silly,” Emily says in deeply wounded tones.

“No, no, not at all,” Gwendolyn hurriedly reassures. “I suppose I was…surprised. That’s all. Nothing about it is silly. Really.”

Mildred gently coaxes Emily until her entire upper half is out from under the blankets. She hugs Emily, tightly and fiercely.

“I think,” she whispers, “that you’re _so_ lucky that you’ve perhaps found a person when you’re this young. And your best friend at that.” She tucks a loose curl back beneath Emily’s scarf. “I think Kathleen is wonderful, sweetheart. We’d love to have her over for dinner.”

Emily nods but doesn’t speak. She rolls over onto her stomach and props herself up on her elbows, her chin in her hands. She gazes at Mildred and Gwendolyn pensively, considering. _She’s a ponderer_ , Gwendolyn has always said, _just like you, Mildred_. Mildred thinks she might’ve read somewhere that when people love each other enough they start to become alike. She hopes that it’s true.

“Do you know,” Emily finally says, “that feeling some people give you, as though they really see you? Exactly for who you are? Even the ugly parts you wish you could hide. And the world is enormous and I feel so…so _lost_ in it all sometimes, but then you look at them.”

She sighs. “You look at them, and they’re looking back at you and you can tell that they’re thinking, _oh, there you are_. As if you’re the one they’ve been waiting for the whole time.” She sits up and hugs her knees to her chest. “Kathleen feels like that. She feels like coming home.”

Mildred and Gwendolyn, at this point, are both openly crying, which in turn causes Emily to roll her eyes and cover her face with her hands. What a thing, Mildred thinks, to be cuddled in bed next to the love of her life and the daughter they share. To be discussing life and romance and all the sweet, mundane things that come in-between. Never, not even in her wildest dreams, did she ever let herself dream up anything like this.

“Yes,” Mildred says to Emily, though her eyes are on Gwendolyn, “I know exactly what you mean.”

* * *

The night of the dinner arrives and Emily is a nervous wreck. She spends the entire morning cleaning the house top to bottom. She does the tasks that Mildred and Gwendolyn usually only reserve for big holidays like Christmas: she dusts the light fixtures, polishes the silver she picks out for the meal, puts the lace tablecloth on the dining room table. She carefully selects bundles of autumn flowers from the garden and arranges them in vases and old jam jars, which she then sets out on every clear surface. She is a bundle of jittery energy, bouncing from one chore to the next to the next, politely declining help every time it’s offered.

Even though Kathleen isn’t scheduled to arrive until 6:30, Emily nonetheless vanishes upstairs to dress and get ready just after 3:30. She sets her hair in enormous rollers and takes a long, luxurious bath in Gwendolyn and Mildred’s tub, complete with lavender scented bubbles. She stays in the water until it goes cold and the foam disappears. When Mildred and Gwendolyn pass by the door, they can hear the sounds of Emily quietly singing Ella Fitzgerald mixed with the splashing water.

Emily tries on half the dresses in her closet, modeling them all for Gwendolyn and Mildred and carefully scrutinizing herself in her full length mirror. A few are meticulously spread out on her bed to compare and consider, but most of them wind up in a pile on the floor. She finally settles on one gifted to her by Trevor: a lovely purple number, the color of a crocus petal, with a full skirt that falls to her knees. It has a fey little Peter Pan collar, capped sleeves, and a sash that ties around the back in a large bow. 

Gwendolyn disappears for a few minutes, and when she returns it’s with an armful of goodies: a strand of pearls and matching earrings that Trevor gave her on their anniversary years and years ago, an ornate silver barrette she bought in Paris the first time she visited, and a fur stole. Emily gapes at the items with frank astonishment.

“I can’t,” she says immediately. “They’re too lovely.”

“No,” Gwendolyn corrects, smiling, “they’re exactly lovely enough.”

She guides Emily to sit at her vanity. She fastens the pearls around Emily’s neck and carefully puts in one earring, then the other. She drapes the stole over Emily’s narrow shoulders; neatly ties the front ribbon. She pauses when she arrives at Emily’s hair. 

“Do you mind?” Gwendolyn asks, and Emily shakes her head.

She gathers Emily’s hair into a low bun, though leaves her bangs out to frame her face. She secures it, making sure to discreetly hide the bobby pins, and finishes the back off with the barrette. The result is both elegant and soft, much like Emily herself; a changeling creature, caught between girlhood and womanhood.

Mildred is responsible for makeup. “The trick,” she says as she spreads out her tools, “at your age, is to make it look like you’re not really wearing any makeup at all.”

She pencils in Emily’s eyebrows, making their natural arch more prominent. She paints rouge on Emily’s high cheekbones. She carefully lines Emily’s eyelids in kohl and colors her mouth the pale pink of a ballet slipper. Mascara and a few spritzes of perfume are the final two touches.

Emily studies herself once Mildred finishes. “I look different,” she says.

“You look stunning,” Mildred responds.

Emily turns in her seat and smiles at Mildred. “I know who I look like,” she says. “I look like you.”

* * *

Kathleen arrives at 6:30 on the button. 

Mildred is in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Gwendolyn and Emily are sitting in the living room; Gwendolyn is nursing a bourbon sour, and Emily has a Shirley Temple. Emily leaps out of her chair as if electrocuted when she hears the knock on the front door. Her hands flutter up to her hair to smooth imaginary stands that have fallen out of place. She paces in a quick, tight circle, like a cat stalking its tail. She chews her bottom lip.

“Will you answer it?” she finally asks Gwendolyn shyly.

Gwendolyn acquiesces with an eye roll and a smile. 

Kathleen is standing on the front porch, a tinfoil wrapped plate in her hands. Her golden blonde ringlets are pulled back in a headband that matches her blue polka-dotted dress. Her cheeks, which are still just as round as they were when she was in the 4th grade, turn crimson when Gwendolyn opens the door. They stand in silence for a minute or two, considering each other.

Kathleen speaks first. “I brought brownies,” she blurts, pushing the tray into Gwendolyn’s hands. Her cheeks go improbably redder. “I made them myself.”

“I’m sure they’re delicious,” Gwendolyn says warmly.

There’s a station wagon idling in the driveway that Gwendolyn knows belongs to Kathleen’s father. She waves at the driver, who waves back before backing out and driving back down the dark street. She opens the door a bit wider and gestures, _come in_ , to Kathleen. 

Emily is peeking out of the living room, her pinky nail in her mouth. She pulls it away when she spots Kathleen and steps fully into view. 

“It’s ever so lovely of you to come,” Emily says, so overly-formal that Gwendolyn has to disguise a snort as a cough. Emily glares at her.

Kathleen giggles. “I’ve been over here a thousand times, Emmy,” she says. “But thank you for having me.”

This seems to break the tension, at least a little, and Emily’s posture relaxes. “We’re going to have hors d'oeuvres in here,” Emily says, ushering them into the living room. “Would you like something to drink? I’m having a Shirley Temple.”

“Coke, please,” Kathleen answers, settling herself into an armchair.

Emily skitters off into the kitchen. She can hear Gwendolyn asking Kathleen about school, and she smiles to herself. Mildred, wearing a frilly apron over her green cocktail dress, is arranging water crackers on Emily’s favorite serving platter; it’s made of white china and bordered with pink and blue flowers. Emily sidles up next to her and leans slightly against her side.

Mildred absently pets Emily’s hair with her free hand. “Sweet thing,” she says. “What do you need?”

“Kathleen wants a Coke,” Emily says.

“Well, you know where we keep them, silly,” Mildred says.

Emily huffs, but then goes to get a glass and a bottle. She removes the bottle cap and watches pensively as the syrupy dark liquid within bubbles and fizzes. 

“What are you thinking about, gorgeous?” Mildred asks. She pops a bite of brie into her mouth and chews, eyebrows raised expectantly, as she waits for an answer.

Emily rests the small of her back against the counter. “Kathleen looks pretty tonight,” she says.

Mildred nods, then cocks her head to the side, anticipating more.

Emily reaches up for a lock of hair before she remembers she’s wearing it in a bun. Her hand falls limply to her side. She turns and squints at her reflection in the kitchen window. She sticks out her tongue and crosses her eyes.

“Did you ever feel like you looked…wrong?” Emily asks. “When you were my age. Or not my age, I guess.”

Mildred smiles, slightly forlorn. She remembers being a bit younger than Emily--thirteen perhaps, or maybe twelve--and overhearing a prospective foster mother murmur to her husband _bad posture and weak ankles_ after carefully inspecting Mildred. She remembers going over and over every bit of her face as she stared hungrily into the mirror, wishing her eyebrows weren’t so thick, her forehead less broad, her cheekbones less pointed. She remembers being skinny and sharp, all elbows and angles, in baggy, handed down clothes that never seemed to fit quite right.

She cups Emily’s face in her hands and gently forces her to look up until they’re eye to eye. “I did feel that way,” she says softly, “even though I didn’t need to. And neither do you. Not now, not then, and not ever.”

Emily fidgets. “Do you think Kathleen thinks I’m pretty?” she asks, and the naked desperation in her voice makes her sound much younger than fourteen.

Mildred, suddenly, recalls a long ago winter afternoon; a Saturday, cloudy, nothing special to mark it. Emily was in…4th grade? 5th? Kathleen was over, spending the night. Mildred stood unnoticed in the hall outside of Emily’s room and watched as the two girls played dolls. She can still remember with perfect clarity the expression of absolute adoration on Kathleen’s face as she’d watched Emily speak, and how she had thanked whoever was listening for granting Emily love at such an early age.

“Darling,” Mildred eventually says, “Kathleen thinks the sun rises and sets on your sweet curly head.”

The hors d'oeuvres go off without any hitches. Kathleen provides detailed answers to Mildred and Gwendolyn’s questions: _how’s school been, do you like your teachers, is your favorite subject still science, has your sister Mary Grace started applying to colleges yet, are you trying out for the fall musical, Emily tells us you’re on the field hockey team; how are you liking it?_ She’s a bubbly and extroverted girl, quick to giggle and--perhaps because she’s the youngest of seven--unbothered by teasing. 

These are traits that nicely complement Emily who--despite being talkative when around Gwendolyn and Mildred--is by nature more taciturn and prone to occasional bouts of ennui. Emily watches quietly as Kathleen, Mildred, and Gwendolyn chat, a peaceful, happy smile on her face, her legs curled up, feline-like, in her chair. When Emily turns her smile on Kathleen, Kathleen beams, practically glowing, in return.

Dinner is boeuf bourguignon. Mildred blushes peony pink and waves away the effusive compliments Gwendolyn, Kathleen, and Emily offer her. Gwendolyn pours Mildred and herself generous glasses of merlot, and gives Emily and Kathleen considerably smaller splashes, too. Upon Mildred’s slightly scandalized look, Gwendolyn laughs.

“If we lived in France they would’ve started having wine with dinner when they were twelve,” she says.

By the time they’ve all had a helping (or two), they are all pleasantly full and warm and sleepy. Gwendolyn stands and stretches, then begins to clear the table. Mildred pushes back her chair like she intends to help, but Gwendolyn firmly shakes her head. 

“The cook _never_ cleans,” she says, dropping a kiss on top of Mildred’s head. “You know that. I’ll bring out dessert once I’ve washed up.” She winks at Emily and Kathleen. “Enjoy the fabulous company.”

Gwendolyn is scrubbing the third plate when she feels someone appear next to her. She glances to the side and smiles when she sees it’s Kathleen. “Hi honey,” she says. “What is it?”

“Can I help you?” Kathleen asks.

“Oh, sweetheart, you really don’t have to--”

“I _want_ to,” Kathleen says, already grabbing a dish towel. “I’ll dry.”

They work in a comfortable, companionable silence for a few minutes. The only noises are the soft splash of water, the muffled chatter of Emily and Mildred, Gwendolyn humming under her breath. 

“We make a good team,” Gwendolyn says after a while.

Kathleen nods, a little distractedly, lost in thought. She sets a finished plate aside and sighs. “Thank you for inviting me over tonight,” she says.

“Of course!” Gwendolyn says. “We love it when you visit.”

Kathleen nods. She dries another plate. “I hope it’s alright,” she says without looking at Gwendolyn, “that I…like…Emily.”

“It’s more than alright,” Gwendolyn affectionately.

“Yes, but,” Kathleen continues uneasily, “I _really_ like her.”

Gwendolyn smiles patiently. “I know, sweets,” she says. “Emily told us. That’s more than alright, too.”

Kathleen bites the inside of her cheek. “My parents,” she says slowly, “don’t, exactly, _know_. That Emily and I…like each other in--in that way.”

She stares fixedly at the plate as she dries it. “I don’t think that they would… _mind_ , exactly. They do know about you and--and Mildred, sort of. Well, I _think_ they know; they _must_. They just…don’t really talk about it.” She twists the dish towel in her hands. “My family is so _loud_ about everything except about things that--that matter.”

“I’m so sorry, Kathleen,” Gwendolyn says, even though she knows that simple platitude isn’t anywhere near enough.

Kathleen shakes her head. “It’s not bad,” she says. “It’s just…what it is.” She shrugs. “Can I help you plate the dessert?”

“I’d love that,” Gwendolyn says, and if her voice is a little wavery they both choose to ignore it.

Kathleen arranges the chocolate chiffon cake on a tray with practiced precision. “I’m in home ec this semester,” she explains when she notices Gwendolyn admiring her.

They’re about to return to the dining room when Kathleen pauses. “Sometimes,” she says, “if I ever have…questions about--about _things_ , could I ask you? Or Mildred?”

Gwendolyn wraps an arm around Kathleen and gives her a quick, fierce half-hug. “I would enjoy absolutely nothing more,” she says.

Kathleen is staying the night, and once dessert is finished she and Emily rush up the stairs, laughing and tripping over each other as they go. Mildred reaches across the table and grabs Gwendolyn’s hands. She kisses one set of knuckles, then the other. 

“I love you,” she whispers, “so much.” 

Gwendolyn hears the words that go unsaid: _I am so glad that against all possible odds the world has let us have each other_. She squeezes Mildred’s hands in her own. “Oh, my precious one,” she murmurs. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> as ever, if you have any requests feel free to leave 'em here or drop me a line on tumblr @ anneofgreengaybles! My school's winter break is coming up (just four more days!) so I will v soon have even MORE time to write sweet soft Ratched fic 🥰


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